


Masks

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Genre: Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:42:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14639211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: He'd worn masks for almost his entire life.  Was it possible he'd actually found a place where he didn't need to wear them, could feel safe without them?  Or was that just too much to ask?  Perhaps his new friendship with the local member of Clan O'Donnell might allow him to do just that.





	Masks

He didn't know what caused him to be in such a dark mood; he could usually keep himself thinking on the bright side, or at least pretending he was, anyway, and that's pretty much what mattered anyway, what them on the outside saw. It hadn't been a particularly bad Mission, tiring was all; wonder of wonders, no one had even been badly hurt, not even the Warden, who made somewhat of a habit of getting in the way of bullets and the like. They'd had a nice round at The Doves last night. He'd heard from his Mum and Aunt Mollie, and they were doing well, other than saying how much they missed him; well, he missed them too, now didn't he. Hadn't seen them for ever so long even before he got involved with Garrison, what with being in prison an all, since then just on that one trip to New York on that Mission with the team, and no more than a few minutes with his Mum, and not seeing Aunt Mollie at all. 

He couldn't afford a case of the dismals, like his Mum called them; they were dangerous for someone like him. For most of his life he'd depended on that cheerful, friendly face, that cheeky attitude; that, along with making himself useful, is what gave him whatever protection he had, and he'd needed it. Got him out of a lot of scrapes, it had. And having the bigger blokes, the ones with power, liking him, finding him useful, that made it all a bit safer, especially in prison, where so much could happen to a smaller man like himself.

Now, it was part of his job, too, he figured, taking care of the others, trying to make them feel better, give them some hope when things looked bad. Never mind he didn't really believe he'd make it thru this war alive, or even if he did, that they'd give him a parole like they promised. He hadn't had a lot of luck with promises and such. His mates, even the Warden, though, they'd come to mean a lot to him, they depended on him and he wouldn't let them down. 

The mood wouldn't let him go; as the afternoon wore on, and the others were busy with this and that, he took the opportunity to slip away, just letting Chiefy know he needed a bit of time to himself, and would be back by morning, if not before. Of them all, Chiefy would be the one most likely to understand that, the needing to get away for a space, and not saying anything to the others unless they really needed him.

Without thinking about it, he found himself by the tall stone wall, with the black metal gate. He hesitated; no sense in bringing his own gloomy self to disturb her, he thought, but gave in to the urge, deciding if he thought he couldn't hold the mask in place, he'd just not spend much time and take his leave. {"Maybe just for a bit, it might help, it has before."}

She knew when he came over the wall that something was different; he seemed older, more the age she knew him to really be, and maybe like he had a bit of a headache; the thought crossed her mind, {"or a bit of a heartache, perhaps."} 

She didn't welcome strangers here; well, she didn't welcome anyone here, baring a rare visit from one of the family, even more rarely someone on the Friends and Family list. This was her refuge from the strain of the job she had done for so long now, the strain of dealing with people who didn't know her, couldn't know her, of having no one to depend on, no one to just be with as herself.

Still, when the slight Englishman had made his way over her wall that first time, she'd not turned him away; there was something about him, she didn't know what, but it didn't feel uncomfortable for him to be here, and she hadn't felt that need to put on one of her many masks. She'd started keeping the tea and sweet biscuits he favored, just for the times when he'd drop in. They'd sit in the garden, sometimes talk but sometimes just sit, he'd ask for a song or two and she'd bring out her guitar and play him something, sing; he told her he first came over the wall because he'd heard her singing. She'd started playing him the new ones she'd just written, still amazed that she was writing again; she hadn't for so long. She didn't remember just when she started, but it was sometime after that first visit over the wall.

She knew about him from his file, of course; she'd taken the time to pull the files on all of them, up at the Mansion, when they'd come to stay. She didn't know about the others, having little to do with them, but him, in person, he was both very like, and yet very unlike what you'd expect from that terse description in his dosier.

The top layer, the most obvious, yes that was all written down; but there was so much else she could sense, more than with most, and it intrigued her, tugged at her. She had wondered at the beginning if he could be one of the Far-Away Brothers, ones who'd come from lines that had parted from the Clan so long ago that they'd been lost; but that didn't seem quite like the answer. Still, there was something that teased at the corner of her being, like a dust mote in the corner of her eye, something she could ALMOST recognize. She'd started worrying about him, (him and his mates of course, she told herself) when they were off on a Mission, though she scolded herself, telling herself she couldn't afford the distraction. 

Now, when she saw him thru the kitchen window, she reached out to put the kettle on and take down the biscuit tin. If he was in the mood for music, she had her guitar on the chair beside the door. Puzzled, she saw him hesitate, heave a sigh and turn to go back over the wall. {"Whatever is the matter? Does he think I'm not here for some reason?"} She stepped outside and called to him as he reached the top of the wall; he paused, sat there for a moment, looking back at her, then slowly came back down, and took a few steps forward. {"Yes, something's troubling him, for sure!"} 

"I shouldn't 'ave come, I'm sorry," he muttered, keeping his eyes turned away, not meeting her puzzled gaze.

"And why is that, then," she asked gently, moving up til she stood in front of him.

"I'm outta sorts, for some reason; should 'ave stayed away," he admitted.

She reached out with one hand, with two fingers tipping his face toward her, an action as unexpected to her as it was to him, {"other than a light touch of the hands when handing him a cup, that's the first time I've touched him,"} the thought surprising her, the fact that she found it pleasing to touch him surprising her even more; she wasn't a great one for touching anymore, any more than being touched), searching his face for something, though she'd didn't quite know what she was looking for.

"Come in, sit, and you can tell me about it if you like," and he was halfway to the door before he realized he'd never been inside before.

"You'll not want me inside, garden is fine," he muttered; he knew from talk in the village that she never let anyone except family inside the cottage, not even those who delivered supplies. In fact, when some of the blokes from the Base had started laying bets they'd make it to her bedroom within a week, the locals had told them a thing or two. "You've heard the saying about getting a camel thru the eye of a needle? Well, you'd have better luck with that than getting inside her cottage even, much less her bedroom! She don't take kindly to anyone trying, either, so you'd best watch yourselves!" True enough, one or two of them had made the attempt; luckily for them, the ambulance from the Base had been fairly close both times. That was in the early days; there'd been more since then, enough that Big Mike, one of the ambulance drivers, had a pool going as to the next time and just what damage she'd do.

Eyebrows raised, she moved to the kitchen door and held it open, and he hesitantly walked through. "Have a seat," nodding toward the kitchen table, turning away to get the cups and saucers, spoons, biscuit tin, "tea'll be ready soon."

Curiously he looked around, taking it all in, snug, tidy, windows facing the garden, an open doorway to one side leading into what looked to be a bedroom from the dressing table and bench there against the wall, another closed door along side that; the kitchen had only three walls, where the fourth would have been, opposite the kitchen door, opened into the sitting area, complete with small harp, small piano, two wingback chairs, a couple of small tables, not much more. The sitting area had an open doorway of its own, into a room with nothing but books, lined floor to ceiling, and a desk with matching chair.

Not thinking, as he looked around, he said, "Getting inside, does this give me bragging rights?" then realizing what he'd said, the words he'd used, what the words implied (though that wasn't what he'd intended) and blushed deeply and started to apologize.

She laughed at him, gently, teasingly, not being coy, just one friend to another, "No, bragging rights start next room over", nodding at the bedroom door; "tea at the kitchen table just gets you tea," and they both laughed together, him a little sheepishly.

She fixed the tea, and they sat in silent companionship til the first cup, and several biscuits had been consumed (all by him, her not having much of a sweet tooth). "Anything you can talk about? Or would you prefer to just sit, or maybe have some music?" a smile showing that it was an invitation, that she'd be equally comfortable with any of the three, whichever he wanted. 

She refilled their cups, picked up hers, and with a gesture, welcomed him into the living space. She settled into one of the big chairs, curling her legs under her, setting her cup on the small table next to her. He hesitated, followed her, then crossed his legs to sit on the floor in front of her next to the table, his cup joining hers.

The room was lightly shaded, shutters closed on this, the front side of the cottage; she disliked the idea of being overlooked by any passersby, though the cottage was out of the way. They sat in easy silence for awhile, then he started, slowly, feeling his way. He told her about the strange mood he'd awoken with, how he just didn't let that happen and why. From the bits and pieces, for this wasn't a planned out dialogue, it was more one set of words, thoughts, leading to another, then to another, she came to learn more about this man sitting at her feet.

She listened as she heard his words, and what lay behind his words, perhaps things he didn't even hear himself saying, things he said, but not aloud. His anxious need to be on guard at all times, his equally compelling need to protect his friends at all costs, his fear of being responsible for their lives, his acceptance of what he had to do in this war, his inner turmoil at those same actions, his acceptance of his 'place', matched with his painful awareness of his lack of formal education, which he somehow seemed to equate with lack of intelligence.

She realized many other things, too; that he was far more intelligent than he thought himself to be, and certainly far more than most people would give him credit for, since his mask carefully concealed that as well as his other vulnerabilities. That he considered himself a coward; she found that inexplicable considering what she knew of him, their missions and his actions, his behavior on those missions; yes, she'd found herself seeking and getting access to those reports, not that anyone else was aware of that, other than Clan friends who made it possible. His wry acceptance, and underlying unspoken bitterness, of the fact that many chose to see his slight build and stature as making him somehow less worthy, less of a man.She found justification for one of the first thoughts she'd ever had of him, that he had an exceedingly kind heart.

With every layer he revealed, she could see more and more becoming visible underneath, 'like strudel, or baklava, layer upon layer of richness and surprises'. She found herself thinking maybe she was developing a bit of a sweet tooth herself, and she smiled just a bit. When he seemed to wind down, and looked up at her in a start, as if he'd forgotten where he was, he apologized again, knowing he'd been rambling, not really remembering what he'd said, (possibly all to the good for his peace of mind), "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come." 

"Why, because you weren't in the mood to keep the masks on for a change? Do you know why people aren't welcome here, laddie?" Then a quick warm smile, "Other than you, I mean," so he wouldn't be hurt, feel unwelcome. "Because very few people know me without my own masks, and this is one place I leave the masks at the door, try to remember who I am, try to find that person, become reacquainted with her. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll lose her, and one day I'll take off whichever mask I'm wearing, and there'll be no one left anymore, no one real." 

At his wondering eyes, not knowing she was echoing his own more and more frequent thoughts, she decided to tell him the truth, "You're possibly the only one to know this in the village, at least the only one I've told." She didn't ask him to keep her secrets; somehow she knew she could trust him.

"I'm an independent contractor, sort of like Lynn; my Clan hires us out, as needed, for two year contracts, and I'm working one now, actually well into my third and last one. Major Richards, you know him, is my Handler. No one here knows, very few people at all know, except the ones I sometimes work with. When I'm gone, most likely I'm on a Mission. Every time I leave the cottage, even in the village, I wear a mask of some sort; only here, in the cottage, within the walls of the garden, do I set the masks aside totally. If you want, you are free to set aside your masks here as well. You aren't obliged, of course; you are welcome here, with or without them." She grinned at him, "If you do decide to remove them, you can stack them next to mine in that basket by the kitchen door, if you like," nodding toward an intricately woven wicker basket sitting in an alcove between the kitchen door and the long sink counter, "I keep it there just for that purpose, to remind me to remove them when I come home."

As she got up to refresh their cups, he sat in silence, thinking - a place where he didn't have to pretend, where he didn't have to be what anyone else expected him to be, wanted him to be? He'd not had that before, not even with Mum or Aunt Mollie; well, you always had to have a bit of a face on for family, if only to keep them from worrying.

He frowned, was frowning when she returned, when he looked up at her, not as if he was angry, but as if he was thinking so hard it hurt - someone he didn't have to pretend with, even about the bad stuff? Where a dark mood, a case of the dismals, wouldn't cause him to be rejected, sent away? Someplace he could let go, perhaps just a little bit, of that iron grip he had on what he held inside? It didn't seem possible, he'd never thought he'd have any chance at that, but it seemed that's what was being offered.

Thinking to what she'd shared with him, what she'd trusted him with, it just might be possible. He wouldn't get his hopes up, but here, in the room with its shadows streaking across the floor, the thought drew him, urged him on. Maybe if he went at it slow like, til he got used to the idea. He hadn't had much luck with promises and such, as he'd told himself earlier in the day, but just maybe ...?

"Don't want to talk anymore. Any chance for a song or two?" he asked, making no attempt to be cheery, just seeing how it went over. She nodded peacefully, went to fetch her guitar, sat on the piano bench, and played and sang for a bit. When she looked back over, he'd leaned his back up against the big chair, and appeared to be asleep.

She considered, {"I'd wake him for fear he'll get a crick in his neck, but I think he needs this time without being disturbed,"} so she continued playing and singing softly for awhile, slowly sinking her voice to a whisper, before she rose and sank into the other armchair to watch him sleep. Amazing how pleasant an occupation that could be, she thought to herself.


End file.
